


The Pearl of the Woods

by Bluebell7



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M, Forbidden Love, Mild Angst, Mild Smut, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, a little bit of battle violence, don't worry kids, it all comes right in the end, slightly OOC Thranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebell7/pseuds/Bluebell7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the Battle of the Five Armies, King Thranduil meets a healer who touches his heart. As their forbidden love blossoms, both must decide which matters more: their duty to their people, or their feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thranduil allowed the smallest of smirks to creep onto his face as he considered the delegation of Woodland Elves.

Outsiders – Men, Dwarves, even other Elves – considered Thranduil and the rest of his cohorts to be ‘Woodland’ Elves. When in fact, he reflected, the real Woodland Elves were standing in front of him now, gazing up at his throne, some with trepidation, others with distaste, or even defiance.

Instead of electing to live in the Greenwood city that had arisen around his palace, these Elves had chosen to shun his protection, making their homes in the trees. Their villages were hidden deep within the forest. Even Thranduil himself, who was aware of nearly every leaf that stirred within his realm, was not absolutely sure of the location of some of them.

These were the true Woodland Elves, in a way. He had called them here upon the recommendation of his Chief Counsellor, Galion. ‘A consultation with them about the problem of the spiders is long overdue,’ his trusted advisor had suggested. ‘And do they not deserve to be told, your Grace, if we plan to travel to the Lonely Mountain?’

Thranduil cast his eye over the group. There were a dozen of them, or thereabouts. The Woodlanders were the butt of many jokes in the palace, due to their perceived ‘wild’ nature and appearance, but there was nothing primitive or barbaric about these Elves. This was a cross section of warriors, healers, and respected elders. They were all dressed rather finely, some with intricately braided hair. Their cloth was plain – no silks or velvet – but well made, and their weapons were unadorned, but looked to be extremely serviceable.

His eye caught on one woman, standing near the back of the group. Her golden hair was waist length and loose, with no braids at all. There was no fear in her face; no distaste, nor defiance. She favoured him only with a look of patient stoicism, her violet-blue eyes resting on him unapologetically. Like most of the Woodlanders, she was shorter than is usual for an Elf, closer to the height of a human. She was also not nearly so slim; he made a conscious effort to keep his eyes from sliding too obviously over her curves. Her cloak and gown appeared black, but as she shifted her stance he saw that they were in fact a very dark blue; the deep and ever-changing blue of a midnight sky. She wore no jewellery, save one single pearl on a silver chain around her neck, resting on her breast like a lone star.

There was a long curved sword sheathed at her hip.

Galion coughed pointedly at his right, and Thranduil realised that in staring at the woman (what was she? A healer? A warrior? The Lady of some Chieftain?) he had lost track of what the group’s leader, Londelion, had been saying. He turned his attention back to him, listening patiently to his concerns about the spiders. Then another, clearly a reverenced elder, spoke about the encroaching darkness that now lay over the forest.

The lady in blue kept her own counsel. 

There was some discussion of how best to combat the spiders, before the talk turned to the Dwarves of Erebor, and the possibility of battle.

“I do not see why we should rush to aid the men of the Lake,” Londelion frowned, “Especially now that the dragon is dead. If what you say of this coming darkness is true, then surely our full force is needed here.”

“But the darkness – the dragon, the spiders, and the rest of it – is only a symptom of the sickness, not the sickness itself,” interjected Galion. “We must strike at the root cause; if we stay here to fight, we may soon be overrun.”

“Then it is true, that what is happening in the wood is connected with the rumours of this…. This necromancer?” Londelion replied.

A small stir went around the throne room, and all eyes turned to Thranduil. Just for a second, he once again met the violet gaze of the lady in blue. His words, he directed to Londelion.

“It is still too early to say what is true, and what is not.” He intoned. “I have already decided that my troops shall travel to Erebor. We shall give what aid we can to the Men, and gauge the situation with the Dwarves. I will bring no risk to the lives of my people unless absolutely necessary. I call upon as many healers and warriors who can be spared from your villages to join in this endeavour.” He paused, once again looking over the faces of all present. “The darkness is already at our door. This may be the first real step in the fight to reclaim our Woodlands.”

Londelion turned to consult with his fellows, while the Elder who had spoken before – a brown-haired Elf in green – turned to talk with the lady in blue. Thranduil sighed. He knew it was unlikely that anything would actually be decided here today; the Woodland clans were notorious for their slow decision making, as well as for their secrecy. He was surprised therefore, when the whispering stopped, to find the lady in blue moving to the front of the group.

“As many healers as can be spared will come with you, your Grace,” she announced, her voice clear and ringing like a bell. 

“You do not strike me as a healer, my Lady,” Thranduil replied, giving the sword at her hip a pointed look.

A small, and somewhat sad smile crossed the woman’s face, as she brushed a hand over the hilt of her sword.

“Those without swords may still die upon them, your Grace.”

“That is true enough,” He said, more to himself than to her. A shadow passed over his eyes.

As he had suspected, the Woodland clans would not commit to sending any of their warriors with him that day, but begged leave to return to their villages to discuss the matter further. He impressed upon them the need for haste; if they were to accompany him, they would need to leave for the mountain in only a few days’ time. He stopped short of outright ordering the Woodland warriors to report; his people must choose to risk themselves, he would not force them to it.

The Woodlanders would be staying the night in the palace, and a feast had been arranged for later that night in order to show them proper hospitality. As they exited the throne room to be shown to their quarters, Thranduil’s gaze remained upon the woman who had spoken so knowingly of swords. He beckoned to Galion.

“Who is the healer? The lady in blue.”

“Forgive me, your Grace, I do not know her name.”

“It is of no matter.”

He waved Galion away, and rose to go to his chambers. 

If he hoped that he would be able to converse more with the beautiful healer that evening, then he kept that hope a secret, even from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lady in blue borrows a line from Eowyn.


	2. Chapter 2

Tanwen found that she was a little out of breath, as she and her fellow Woodlanders followed the palace Elves to their quarters for the night. She also found that she was unknowingly fingering the hilt of her sword, and quickly forced her hand back to her side, lest her gesture be read wrongly by their hosts. _I must not wear it to the feast_ , she thought.

She and her young friend, apprentice healer Bethiel, were shown into the room they were to share. Although Bethiel was not strictly senior enough to have come on the visit to the palace, Tanwen had chosen to bring her anyway, in the hope that her sweet manner and slight skittishness would detract somewhat from her own nervousness.

And she had been nervous, although she hoped she had hidden it well before the King.

“Look at this place, Tanwen!” Bethiel cried, just as soon as the door had closed behind the palace Elf.

The room they were to share was indeed luxurious. The walls were covered with intricate carvings, and a large window looked out over a garden bursting with bright red flowers, bathing the room with the soft light of the setting sun. There were two large beds, and a dressing table covered with soaps and wash cloths and brushes. A finely wrought metal bath full of steaming water had been brought in for their use.

Tanwen had been doing her best not to gape at the opulence of the palace, and she was sure that there were many far finer rooms than the one they had been given, but now that she was alone with Bethiel, she dropped her mask and allowed herself to gape just a little.

Bethiel giggled at her raised eyebrows, and let herself flop onto one of the beds.

“What stories I shall have to tell the other apprentices when we return home! And you; you actually spoke to the King! Do you think him handsome, after all?”

Before they had left the village for the Palace, there had been much discussion amongst the younger girls about whether or not King Thranduil really was as handsome as people said. The King’s face bloomed in her mind’s eye; smooth skin, burning blue eyes, sculpted brow and cheek bones, and hair like silk. _Yes_ , Tanwen thought to herself. _I thought him very handsome indeed._

Aloud, she said nothing, only took hold of the white pearl around her neck, and rolled it between her fingers until it began to grow warm. Seeing the gesture, Bethiel paused in her childish chatterings.

“Forgive me, Tanwen,” she said, sitting up on the bed. “I didn’t think.”

Tanwen was surprised at her apology, until she realised that Bethiel had read her absent-minded fiddling in quite another way. The pearl had been a gift from Tanwen’s husband, Feanon, many, many years ago. Just before he died in battle.

Tanwen gave her a wry smile, and decided to let Bethiel believe she had been thinking of Feanon, and not, in fact, of the King’s silken hair, like some excitable young novice.

“It is nothing, Beth. And besides, whether the King is handsome or no, it does no good to any of us. His wife waits for him in the afterlife, just as Feanon waits for me. So neither of us, nor any of your pretty young friends, can raise our eyes to him.”

Bethiel pouted, and then gave a mischievous little grin.

“He certainly looked at you a great deal just now.”

“He was looking at all of us, Beth. Stop your meddling, and let’s get ready for tonight.”

Tanwen let Bethiel have first use of the bath, helping her to wash her hair and scrub her back. When it was her turn, it struck her how strange it was to bathe inside; she was used to the hot springs or the waterfall at home. Afterwards, they amused themselves for a little while by investigating the pots of scented cream on the dressing table, and then oiled and brushed out each other’s hair, until Tanwen’s was a glimmering river of gold; Bethiel’s, a shining torrent of blue-black.

After seeing to her own hair, Bethiel insisted on putting a few braids into Tanwen’s. Tanwen barely ever bothered to braid her hair, unless she was working in the infirmary, and even then she would only tie it into one long braid at the back of her head to keep it out of the way. Bethiel was rather ingenious with braids, however.

She left most of Tanwen’s hair loose, putting one small braid on either side of her head, circling around and joining into one at the back. Having asked permission first, she removed the pearl from around Tanwen’s neck, and braided it into the design so that it hung in the centre of Tanwen’s forehead. Looking at herself in the mirror – another luxury neither of them had ever had before – Tanwen had to admit that the effect was rather pleasing.

They put on the same dresses they had been wearing earlier (Tanwen left her sword lying on the dressing table). Each of them had only brought one dress to the Palace – the best dress they had – so there was nothing else for them to change into. Bethiel worked some magic again by deftly removing the sleeves of each of the gowns, so that they looked more appropriate for the evening. “I can sew them back on tomorrow morning easily enough,” she said, as she snipped through the stitches with a small pair of scissors.

They admired themselves in the mirror in their newly armless dresses.

“You’re wasted in healing, Beth,” Tanwen told her with a smile.

It wasn’t long before another palace Elf came to escort them to the feasting hall. If he found anything to either admire or admonish in their appearance, he didn’t let on.

As they walked to the feasting hall, Tanwen wondered if she had done the right thing by committing her healers to King Thranduil’s cause. Of course, only those who volunteered for it would actually be going, and not even all of those, if Tanwen had her way (she would order Bethiel and the rest of the apprentices to stay safely at home, for one thing).

But still, she was worried for her people. Afraid, even. If things went awry, she at least knew how to fight. Most of her fellow healers could not say the same. As they neared the feasting hall, the sounds of conversation and laughter began to drift through the air, and she squashed her concerns as best she could, putting on a brave face to once again go before the King.


	3. Chapter 3

Thranduil sat at the head table of the feasting hall, taking a sip every so often from his cup of sweet wine.

Many of his Elves had arrived to the feast early, eager for a look at the newcomers. He had not bothered to caution them to be polite to the Woodlanders, hoping that their own common sense would keep them from disrespecting their guests.

As guests, the Woodlanders were to sit with him at the head table, along with a smattering of high ranking palace Elves. He had left the finer seating arrangements to Galion, who directed the Woodlanders to their seats as they gradually began to arrive. He found Londelion seated to his left, and the green-garbed elder, whose name turned out to be Nordoloth, on his right. He engaged them both in polite conversation, although he found that his eyes kept flitting towards the entry-way.

More and more Elves crowded into the feasting hall, and the air began to grow warm and to fill with the smell of food and the sound of talk and laughter. Every so often another small group of Woodlanders would be escorted to their seats by Galion. The palace Elves smiled and nodded at them, but Thranduil did spot some not-so-discreet whispering behind hands taking place.

There were only two empty seats left at the table when a small ripple went through the Elves seated below in the hall. Looking up, Thranduil saw that it had been caused by the entrance of the healer, and her young companion.

“Ah,” said Nordoloth, following the direction of the King’s gaze. “Here is our Tanwen.”

Thranduil found he could not quite bring himself to take his eyes from her as Galion led her through the hall. If he had looked around, he would have seen that there were many more pairs of eyes that also followed her progress.

The younger Elf with her was certainly pretty, but there was something almost startling about this Tanwen’s appearance. Her dress was the same deep blue that she had been wearing earlier, only now her arms were bare, and the contrast her pale limbs made with her dark gown was enough to make him grip the arm of his chair until the wood creaked in protest.

As she drew nearer and took her seat at the table – on the opposite side from him, a few chairs further to his right – he saw that the single pearl that had been around her neck was now braided into her hair, resting gently on her smooth forehead. It moved slightly with every turn of her head, and drew his gaze once more to her eyes. She had the look of some otherworldly sea creature. A thought rose unbidden into his head: _if you kissed her, she would taste of salt._

“Lovely, isn’t she, your Grace?” the kindly voice of Nordoloth broke into his thoughts, and it was all he could do to keep from physically jumping at the interruption.

“Yes, very lovely,” He agreed, taking another sip of wine and trying to make his voice sound as offhand as possible. Inside, he was thinking: _lovely is not the word, Nordoloth._

“Such a shame about her husband, though.”

 _Husband?_ Nordoloth saw the question in his eyes.

“Yes. Feanon. He was killed – it must be, four hundred years ago now.”

“Closer to five,” interjected Londelion. “My brother was killed in the same raid. Best not to speak of it now.”

“Yes, you are right,” agreed Nordoloth, as Thranduil’s mind reeled.

 _So she is married_ , he thought, his heart sinking like a stone.

 _And so are you, you dolt_ , his thoughts reminded him. His heart sank even further as an image of his wife – laughing, sunlit, naked - flashed into his mind. His head had been so turned by this Woodlander that he had forgotten for a minute his own Queen, his own son, his own duty. He looked at Tanwen again, with new eyes, only to find she was looking back at him, the pearl glinting softly between her brows. _She isn’t for you_ , said his thoughts, _and never was_.

Resolving not to look at the healer again unless decorum depended upon it, he plunged back into conversation with Londelion and Nordoloth.

As the evening wore on, Thranduil found himself greatly enjoying the company of the Woodlanders. The wine eased things along, certainly, but the friendly and unaffected manners of his guests were a refreshing change from the often rather cold humour of the palace Elves. Every so often he would hear a clear, ringing laugh from the other side of the table, but he gritted his teeth and stubbornly refused to turn his head to the right.

As the feast began to come to an end, and the plates were taken away, there were some calls for music. The lower tables were moved to the sides of the hall, and a harp was brought in. The ladies of the court took turns at performing, sometimes two at a time, with one playing and the other singing. It was after a song about the joys of the Greenwood in spring – a song tinged with sadness now, due to the poison festering in the hearts of the trees – when Thranduil heard Galion, seated at the end of the table to his right, request a turn from one of the Woodlanders.

“Is there one among you who would be willing to favour us with a song?”

Every Woodlander’s head turned towards Tanwen. Thranduil was forced, finally, to turn to her as well.

“Come, Tanwen,” said Nordoloth. “You are by far the best musician among us.”

In turning to look at Nordoloth, Tanwen’s eyes lit upon Thranduil’s face. They lingered just a second too long. She coloured slightly, and her eyes appeared to brighten. Thranduil felt a wave crash inside his chest.

“I thank you, sir,” she replied, turning her eyes to Nordoloth, “But I fear I have no knowledge of the harp. Nor is my voice nearly so fine as the ladies who have already sung.”

Thranduil observed that she was favouring the elder to his right with a rather meaningful stare; a stare which seemed to say _please, help me off this hook_. If Nordoloth saw it, he elected to ignore it.

“Perhaps, but you have your drum with you, surely?”

Thranduil saw Tanwen shut her eyes for a moment, knowing she was beaten.

“Aye, sir,” she replied, with a resigned smile. “I have my drum.”

“A drum?!” Exclaimed a slightly incredulous voice from the hall.

Thranduil saw Tanwen’s eyes spark a little in annoyance. Nordoleth turned to him.

“Our drums are not as you would expect them to be, your Grace. And if I may say so without causing offence to your very talented ladies, I have never heard any music more beautiful than the drumming of our Tanwen here.”

“Please play, Tanwen!” An excited young voice came from the Woodlanders.

Tanwen raised her eyes to Thranduil, almost as if asking for permission, or for him to forbid her to play. He met her gaze steadily, and smiled.

“I should be very much honoured to hear you play, Lady Tanwen.” He heard himself saying.

She stayed silent for a moment, as if she was still planning on refusing him.

“Then it would be my pleasure, your Grace.”

There was some slight commotion in the hall, as a servant was dispatched to the guest quarters with instructions to retrieve Tanwen’s drum. When he returned, he was carrying something that, to Thranduil’s eyes, did not look like a drum at all, but more like two large curved metal plates, turned to face each other with the curved edge outwards, and soldered together.

It appeared to be extremely light, as the servant was able to lift it over his head with ease to navigate the crowded hall, and when Tanwen met him at the end of the table and he handed it over, she carried it to the centre of the hall floor with one hand, as if it weighed no more than a feather.

When she reached the centre of the hall, she turned to face the head table, and set the drum on the floor with a soft, echoing ring. To Thranduil’s slight amazement, she then knelt on the floor next to the drum, and drew it onto her knees a little. By this time, every pair of eyes in the hall was watching her. She stretched her arms and shoulders, and then poised her elegant hands. There was silence for a moment longer. The she began to play.

The sound of the drum reminded Thranduil of nothing so much as Tanwen’s own ringing voice. At first her hands moved slowly, her fingers and palms deftly hitting certain areas of the drum in order to produce different notes. Then all at once her hands moved faster, flying over the surface of the drum as if she were casting some kind of spell. Some notes were soft, hit with her palms or fingertips, while others were harder, when the drum was flicked or rapped with the side of her hand. The tune changed constantly as new heights were raised and new depths discovered, her lithe arms a blur, her face a mask of concentration as she pulled the music from the drum like honey from a hive.

Thranduil was entranced, almost mesmerised by her playing, but still he had enough wits about him to notice that no-one in the hall was speaking during Tanwen’s playing. All, even the proud ladies who must have scoffed at the thought of her drumming, were drawn in by her. He even saw more Elves sneaking into the hall, craning for a look at who was making such strange and beautiful music.

When her tune finally came to its end, Thranduil found that all he wanted in the world was for it to continue. As Tanwen stood up, the hall broke into applause, and even cheers. She blushed, but a smile broke across her face like dawn across the mountains. She gave a deep nod in acknowledgement of the applause, still smiling.

Her smile all but disappeared when she caught Thranduil’s eye.

They stared at each other across the hubbub of the hall for what seemed like an eternity. He was out of breath, his chest heaving, the pulse in his throat hammering as though he had just run ten leagues. She broke the gaze first, with a little shake of her head. _No_ , the shake seemed to say. _I am not for you._

She picked up her drum, and left the centre of the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drum Tanwen plays is based on an instrument called the Hang drum - you can find some videos of them being played on YouTube.


	4. Chapter 4

The battle was bloody. The bloodiest Tanwen had yet seen, and she had fought the demon spawn of Ungoliant in the darkest groves of Mirkwood.

As soon as the Orc army hoved into view, she knew it was going to be bad. She was at the back of the Elven forces with the rest of the healers, as she had been for the whole of the journey to Erebor. King Thranduil was a distant and usually unseen presence at the head of the column, but now, as battle was about to be joined, she could see him clearly astride his war Elk, his face full of grit and fire, directing his troops to form up and fight.

“Get ready,” she instructed her healers. “The wounded will be coming in almost immediately.”

She drew her shining blade with a deadly scrape of metal, and started striding towards the front line.

“But where are you going?” A nameless voice shouted from behind her. “Tanwen, we need you!”

“King Thranduil will need every sword! I will return!” She shouted back, quickening her pace.

As she charged into the fray, Tanwen quickly realised she was in over her head. She had fought orcs before, but never this many at once, and never with trolls scattered amongst them, sweeping away souls left and right with their giant war clubs. _Still,_ she thought, _I have to try._

Her blade _Feanon’s blade_ flashed as she spun and dived and sliced, its brightness quickly marred with the black blood of the enemy. An orc knocked her to the ground, but she came up fighting and slashed off an arm, and then a head. She spun around and came sword to axe with a Dwarf, bearded and yet bald, the dome of his head covered with tattoos. They both froze in the act of bringing their weapons down, nodded at each other, and turned to find more appropriate targets.

Tanwen succeeded in fighting her way completely through the skirmishing soldiers and into an almost clear patch before she got into any real trouble. Before she knew what had happened, she was lying on her back, winded, and staring up at the sky. A shadow fell across her, and she realised she must have fallen victim to the sweeping club of one of the trolls. Head reeling, she struggled back to her feet, and sure enough, the stench of the troll was eye watering as the creature lumbered yet nearer, and raised its club ready to pound her into the ground like a fence post.

Suddenly, a sword point protruded from the front of the foul creature’s throat, and she was showered with its hot blood. The troll grabbed stupidly at the blade for a moment or two, before its eyes rolled back in its head and she danced out of the way as it fell forward with an almighty crash, revealing none other than King Thranduil clinging to its shoulders.

Grunting, he yanked his sword from the creature’s throat, releasing yet more gouts of blood, and raising his head, he spotted her.

In the eye of the storm, they took each other in. There was no crown on his head now, only a small silver circlet. He was not wounded, Tanwen could see. The splashes of blood on his face were not his own, and his hands, gripping two of longest swords she had ever seen, were sure and steady. She felt something uncurl inside her, the way it had after she had played for him in the feasting hall, and he had stared at her with hunger in his eyes.

“Tanwen,” he said, in such a way as made her think that he might have said her name like that before, even if only in his head, with nothing and no-one there to hear the intimacy of it.

“My King.”

He saw the orc before she did.

She saw it in his eyes, the sudden widening of them, the glint of fear and fury. Spinning quickly, her sword already angled for the kill, she sliced it across the orc’s throat in one swift and merciless move. Turning back to the King, she saw that he was beset by several more of the beasts, and ran to lend her sword to the fight.

Back to back they stood, for the Valar only knew how long, fending off attack after attack. Sometimes, it was almost as if they were dancing, anticipating and incorporating each other’s moves. Eventually though, Tanwen felt herself begin to tire, and he must have sensed it too. As soon as there was a lull in the fighting he turned to her, gripping her shoulder hard.

“Get back to the healers, now!”

“But you need-”

“I said now! That’s an order!” He shouted into her face, his eyes flashing.

She nodded at him, and his expression softened slightly. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but instead called over a couple of Elves, instructing them to get her back to the healer’s tent as quickly as possible.

“And stay there to defend the wounded, should the fight get that far. Quickly! Go!”

With no time for any more words, Tanwen ran back to the healer’s tent, the two soldiers covering her. When she arrived, the scene was dismal; the earth ran red with blood, and everywhere were the sounds of pain and death.

“Right then,” she said to herself, sticking her sword into the ground and rolling up her sleeves.

***

“I need a healer,” said a commanding voice at the mouth of the tent.

Tanwen looked up from where she was finishing tending to a cut above Londelion’s eyebrow.

In the end, almost six hundred of the Woodland warriors had elected to come to the Lonely Mountain, Londelion among them. She wondered just how many of them would be returning with her. She had closed the eyes of scores of them this day.

The battle, which some were already calling the Battle of the Five Armies, had been won for quite some time, and although the badly wounded had been slipping from her fingers all afternoon, she clawed back three for every one she lost.

The sun had been set for about an hour, and Tanwen was exhausted, but still she rose to her feet at the Elven soldier’s request.

“I am a healer. Where are you hurt?”

“It is not me, Lady. It is King Thranduil.”

Tanwen’s blood ran cold.

“The King?”

“Aye.”

“Take me to him.”

Grabbing her bag of healing supplies, she hurriedly followed the soldier through the bustling camp to a large tent hung with rich cloths, small flags streaming at each corner.

The soldier lifted up the tent flap and ushered her inside.

“The healer, your Grace,” he announced, and let the flap fall back down.

Thranduil was alone, shirtless, reclining on a small sofa, and attempting to look closer at a bleeding wound in his left shoulder. He did not look up as she entered, but simply began speaking.

“With the tumult of the battle I did not notice I was wounded until I undressed. Could you-” He glanced up, and stopped talking immediately upon seeing it was her.

Tanwen immediately switched into what she called her ‘brisk healer’ manner. It was good for getting nervous patients to relax a little or to stop their nonsense, but also for masking her own emotions. In this case, she was employing it for the second purpose. She strode determinedly towards the speechless King.

“Doesn’t look too bad from here, your Grace, but let me take a closer look at it.”

She knelt on the floor next to him, as close to him as she dared, and gingerly placed a hand on either side of the wound.

“Stay still, please.” She instructed, wiping away as much blood as she could with a piece of gauze. She made a point of looking only at the wound, and not at his face. Her fingers, where they touched his smooth pale chest, were tingling.

“The cut is not too deep,” She announced, “but there appears to be a small piece of metal – from the blade, or perhaps your armour – stuck in it. I’ll need to remove it before I can stitch it.”

Now she looked up at him. She drew back a little, seeing that his face was mere inches away from hers. He was watching her with unreadable eyes.

“Do it, Lady.” He commanded.

Tanwen nodded, and reached for her bag. It took her some little time to get a good grasp on the piece of shrapnel with a pair of tweezers. Eventually, she reached a stage where she thought she could yank it all out in one go.

“This will hurt, your Grace.”

He gave a nod.

She gave a sharp pull, making sure to keep the tweezers firmly closed. The sliver of metal slid out relatively smoothly. The King, who had gritted his teeth, made no sound except a hiss at the moment of extraction. The wound began to bleed afresh, and Tanwen mopped up the blood while making absolutely certain that no metal was left inside. Satisfied, she cleaned it as best she could, and began sewing it up.

 “You fought well today, my Lady,” he complimented her.

“Thank you, your Grace. But I am not a Lady.”

She glanced up. His eyes were questioning.

“I am sorry,” Tanwen, continued, concentrating on her stitching. “But I am a mere Woodlander. I feel such a fraud when anyone calls me that.”

“Then what should I call you?” he asked, a note of a smile in his voice.

“Oh, Tanwen should do, I think, your Grace.” She smiled too, as she made the last stitch in his shoulder, cut the thread and tied it off.

“Very well. Tanwen,” he replied, and the tone of his voice made that unnameable thing inside her uncurl even more, like a flower blooming in the heat of the sun. She almost wished she had allowed him to continue calling her Lady. Almost.

She smeared a pale green paste, made up of various herbs, across the now stitched wound, and made a healing sign over it with her fingers. She poured the feelings he awoke in her into the gesture. She felt his eyes on her while she did it.

After bandaging his shoulder, she packed her things back into her bag and rose to her feet.

“If that is all, your Grace I will return to my other patients.”

“Thank you Tanwen. That is all.”

She stopped as she was leaving the tent, not quite ready to go yet.

“Yes, Tanwen?”

“When will we be going back to the Greenwood, your Grace?”

“A few more days at most. There are various matters that need my attention here. But we will return home as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, your Grace.”

Tanwen slipped out of the tent, and quickly paced back the way she had come, before she could find some other excuse to linger.


	5. Chapter 5

Thranduil stood still, allowing his servant to dress him as though he was a child.

The battle had been won, his business with the Men and Dwarves concluded, and relatively few of his people lost. There was to be a celebration that evening in honour of their safe return to the wood, and yet something was gnawing at him inside, keeping him from contentment.

At first he had thought it was the departure of his son, Legolas. It had been the right decision, he knew, and yet it had hurt to let him go, and hurt still. No life was more precious to him than that of his son, and his absence certainly contributed to the nagging ache inside him now. But that was far from being all that was wrong.

The servant finished lacing his tunic, and Thranduil sat down so that his hair could be tended to. Catching sight of his own face in the mirror – carefully blank, but with a gaze that was dull, even morose – he allowed himself to consciously consider, for the first time, the problem of Tanwen.

Once again, as they had been doing for weeks now, images of the warrior-healer rose into his mind. The pearl, resting on the curve of her breast, or her forehead. Her hands, moving over the drum like delicate hummingbirds, or making a healing sign over his chest, flooding him with warmth. Her violet blue eyes, the way she dragged them away from his face, as if it cost her effort to do so.

The servant went to place his crown on his head, but Thranduil stopped him. He would wear no crown this evening, nor any braids in his hair. Standing, he made his decision. Tanwen was to be at the feast tonight, before her people left for their villages in the morning. He would get her alone somehow, and finally speak his mind to her. Immediately having decided this, his heart started battering the inside of his chest.

“Are you well, your Grace?” The servant asked.

“Quite well, thank you.”

How was it that he could charge into battle with nary a backwards glance, but when it came to simply speaking to a woman, his considerable nerve immediately threatened to fail him? He gave a huff of derisive laughter, and considered himself in the mirror again. Even without the crown, he was every inch a King in his flowing silver robe. This was his kingdom, and he was not afraid of anything.

***

The feast was a strange one. The laughter and mirth was tinged with sadness for those who had not returned from the Mountain. And yet, the presence of the Woodlanders once again helped things along. It was rare that his people were afforded the opportunity to converse freely with outsiders, and the effect on them seemed to be beneficial. Although some remained cold and distant with those they considered to be beneath them, Thranduil saw more smiles in the feasting hall that night than he had for a thousand years.

Some of the Woodlanders, including Nordoloth (who had not fought in the battle, but stayed at the palace), were seated with him at the head table, but Thranduil made note of the fact that Galion had elected not to seat Tanwen there. Was it possible that his Chief Counsellor had noticed something amiss? A spark of rage flashed inside him; who was Galion to decide how he, Thranduil, should or should not conduct himself?

Grasping his wine firmly, he tried to get a hold of his anger. Most likely Galion, if he had indeed noticed anything, was not making a comment on his King’s conduct, but merely paying deference to those Woodlanders he thought to be of higher ranking. After all, there were close to five hundred Woodlanders in the palace tonight, and many of them must technically outrank Tanwen.

Still, if he couldn’t find her amongst the multitude he would have no chance of talking to her tonight. He was loathe to send for her specifically, eager for discretion as he was.

A familiar ringing laugh attracted his attention, emanating from the left side of the hall.

There she was, standing with a mixture of Woodlanders and his own people. She was wearing blue again, but this time it was the pale greenish blue of sea foam, a gauze-like gown that clung to her full figure. Her hair, like his own, was unbraided, and hanging loosely over one shoulder. His eyes searched out the pearl that should have been at her breast, but found only a plain silver chain sitting high on her neck. As she turned to face away from him, he saw that the back of the gown she wore was draped low, leaving her back and shoulders bare almost to the waist. The pearl was turned backwards, glowing softly between her shoulder blades. She turned again slightly, and he saw her smile at the Elf she was talking to.

She was radiant.

Nordoloth, who had dropped into the vacated seat next to him without Thranduil realising, nudged his arm.

“She has been surreptitiously glancing at you for half an hour or so, your Grace.”

Thranduil’s shock must have shown on his face; Nordoloth drew back a little, but continued to smile at him knowingly.

“Forgive me, your Grace. But I am afraid I cannot help noticing how much your eye has been drawn to Tanwen in recent weeks.”

A little lost for words, Thranduil took a large gulp of wine.

“That’s a shame. I thought that I had been more discreet.”

“Oh you have, your Grace. And so has she. It is only that I know her quite well. And that I notice these things.”

“You fear that I mean to dishonour both myself and her,” Thranduil stated simply, lowering his voice yet further.

Nordoloth’s smile faded a little. He drew his chair closer to the King.

“Not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.  What I fear is that both of you are going to allow ties to loved ones no longer with us to mar your chance of happiness now.” The older Elf paused. “May I speak plainly to you, your Grace?”

“I think you already have,” replied Thranduil, drily.

“This law that keeps the living bound to the dead. That forbids them from ever finding a measure of happiness with another. Is it not about time that it was consigned to the dark ages, as it should have been long ago, if I am any judge?”

“It is not that simple, Nordoloth. I cannot just wave my royal hand and decree the law defunct.”

“Well no, of course not, your Grace-”

“Particularly now that it would seem I would only be doing so for my own benefit. Do you not think my people have come to me before with such petitions? I have refused them again and again, for I do not hold dominion over all the Elves of Middle Earth.”

A touch of venom had crept into Thranduil’s voice, and others seated at the table were glancing in his direction. He reigned himself in, once again gulping at his wine. He had had too much already; his vision was starting to swim.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” said Nordoloth. “It is only that I would wish-” he stopped, and sighed. “Your people love you, King Thranduil. I, and I am sure many others, would want to see you happy again.”

Thranduil made no reply, only turned his eyes to Tanwen. She was still talking and laughing with a member of his guard, favouring him with a sunny smile that made Thranduil want to smash his cup of wine on the floor.

“Will you talk to her, at least?” Nordoloth pressed. “Be open with her, about your feelings?”

Thranduil felt his anger try to rise again, but he stamped it down. The part of his mind that was still sober could tell that the older Elf was merely trying to be kind, and helpful, rather than interfering. He liked Nordoloth, could probably even use a mind like his on the council.

“I will talk to her,” he replied, watching as Tanwen took her leave of the Elf she was talking to, and made her way out of the feasting hall. “You may depend upon it.”


	6. Chapter 6

Tanwen was not particularly happy with her dress.

It had been very kind of one of the ladies of Thranduil’s court – the wife of a Captain whose arm she had managed not to cut off – to lend her a gown for the festivities, but unfortunately it was approximately two shades too small.

It clung too tightly on her breasts and hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Living deep in the forest, where the weather was often close and humid, Tanwen was accustomed to baring her skin, but the clothes she wore at home were usually loose and flowing, nothing like the figure-hugging fashions at court.

Still, she made the best of it, brushing out her hair until it practically glowed, and twisting her pearl necklace around so that it worked with the gown’s high front and low back. She had found that she had a room to herself this time, with one large bed, about twice the size of her bed at home.

When she arrived to the feast, it wasn’t long before she was surrounded by old friends and new. Many of the palace Elves remembered her from her drumming performance, and begged that she would play again later on, but she regretfully informed them that this time her drum had stayed at home. In truth, she was quite glad not to be able to play; she felt rather self-conscious in the clingy gown, and was keen not to draw more attention to herself.

There was one Elf whose attention she would not have minded having a little of, though. The King was seated at the head table once again, drinking heavily and looking rather gloomy. When others spoke to him he made an effort to seem cheerful, but would then slip back into apparent melancholy soon enough. She wondered if he was brooding over the departure of Prince Legolas.

He never looked in her direction.

As the feast wore on, Tanwen began to feel overheated and tired. She was enjoying herself – or at least, she thought she was – but she began to long for some fresh air and quiet, a few moments alone to recover herself. She made her excuses to the young soldier she was talking to, and glanced once more at the King’s table. He now seemed to be in deep conversation with Nordoloth, and still showed no sign of having noticed she was even at the feast at all.

Suddenly, and ridiculously, she felt tears start to prick at the backs of her eyes. What had she been expecting from him? She scolded herself. She was beneath him in every way. _Except the way that you want to be beneath him,_ piped up a mischievous voice in her head. Shocked at her own thoughts, she turned and exited the hall, hoping to find a door to a garden, or even a quiet room with a window, anywhere she could get some fresh air, and be alone.

After pacing along a few corridors, and past several doors to rooms containing small groups talking quietly or playing instruments, she finally came upon a small balcony that was unoccupied. She leant on the balustrade and bowed her head. The glorious red flowers glowing in the dark of the garden below blurred, as she allowed a few tears to creep out of her eyes and slide down her cheeks.

“Are you unwell, Tanwen?” A voice came suddenly from behind her, and she jerked around, with no time to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

The King was standing there, his pale face full of concern.

“No. No, your Grace,” she replied.

“But you are weeping.”

“Yes,” she said, seeing no point in dissembling. She wiped the tears away with her hands.

“Is it anything I can help you with?”

“No, your Grace. I… I am merely overtired. From the battle.”

He nodded silently.

“Should I leave you?” He asked.

“No!” She said, a little too loudly. “I mean…not if you wish to remain, your Grace.”

He gave her a penetrating look, and stepped a little closer. Suddenly, Tanwen was almost scared of him.

“Tanwen,” he began, “I-”

“Please, don’t,” She interrupted. “Please, just don’t say it.” She turned back to the balustrade and stared out over the garden, her eyes seeing nothing.

“Don’t say what?”

“Any of it. Any of what you came here to say. I’m sorry, but I just think it would be better if you didn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

She felt more tears coming, and screwed herself up against them. Something inside her was burning, boiling, compressing down into an uncontainable mass. She dug her nails into her palms and bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She let out a single gasping sob, and turned back to face the King.

“What good would it do? Hmm?” She questioned, her pent up emotions spilling out as anger. “What good would it do either of us? To talk about it?”

He stood still and silent, staring at her with darkened eyes. She felt a finger of fear trace down her spine, shook it off, and plunged onwards.

“What purpose would it serve for me to tell you that you are in my every thought from the moment I wake to the moment I fall asleep? That I feel you in my dreams, even, in my very bones? That sometimes I cannot even think clearly, or do my tasks properly?”

Tears were streaming down her face, but she hardly noticed them. She took a few steps towards him, and only now realised just how tall he was; a whole head taller than herself and perhaps more besides. He was a wall, watching her impassively as she poured out her heart.

“Who does it help?” she continued, “For you to know that? Does it help you? It certainly doesn’t help me. Because it doesn’t matter, does it?” She held out her hands, palms upward. “It doesn’t matter that when I’m near you, I feel like…” she grasped for words, “…like a flower, unfurling in the sun. It doesn’t matter. Because we can never do anything about it.”

She ran out of steam and buried her face in her hands, praying that he would leave.

Instead, he stepped towards her, took her hands away from her face, and held them to his chest. Underneath the silver velvet and firm flesh, she could feel his heart thundering.

“Look at me,” He said. “Please?”

With some considerable effort, she raised her head and looked him in the face. A single tear was running down his cheek. His eyes were filled with pain. She reached a hand up to wipe the tear away, and he closed his eyes, pressing his cheek into her touch.

“You see?” she said, trying to smile. “I shouldn’t have said anything, should I?”

Wordlessly, he took her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm. It took everything she had not to start crying again at that. In spite of her efforts, her eyes filled with tears, waiting for their moment to fall.

“Will you kiss me?” he asked. “Just once.”

She nodded before she even knew she was going to. He bent his head, and she raised hers as high as she could. Their lips touched, and she let herself melt into it, just for this little while, just for this one moment when he could be hers, and she his. She closed her eyes, and the tears fell like rain.

His hand was on her bare back, the pearl trapped beneath his palm. She drew him to her at the last, holding him as tightly  as she could, before pulling suddenly away, twisting out of his arms and running blindly back along the corridor.

In the dark of the balcony, Thranduil held her shadow for a few moments more. He felt the ghost of the pearl beneath his hand, and a voice spoke inside his head. _You were right,_ said the voice. _She did taste of salt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tanwen's emotional speech is partly borrowed from the movie 'The Village' (check it out if you haven't seen it). Thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next half of the story! 
> 
> UPDATE: Sorry it's taking so long to post the second half, I've been landed with a whole bunch of work. It'll definitely be up here before April is out :)


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